


lost love (sweeter when it's finally found)

by liionne



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Class Issues, Drowning, French Revolution, Gun Violence, Historical Homophobia, Historical Inaccuracies, M/M, Mild mentions of gore, Past Lives, The Blitz, World War II, a little talk of violence and things, and even more historical inaccuracies, because i'm bound to get something wrong, even more historicl homophobia, even more minor mentions of gore, finally a happy ending, lowkey les mis vibes, mentions at least - Freeform, mild mentions of smut, more talk of death, some big emotional talks, tags will be updated as chapters are added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11388546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liionne/pseuds/liionne
Summary: His phone tells him that it’s 2017, and for a moment that surprises him. Flopping back in bed, he tries to remember the last date, the last one he can remember from that old life - December? No, maybe not. It was cold and snowy, but that didn’t make it winter time. It was late, though. Late in the war, not in the year, and he scratches the top of his head as he thinks. ‘44? ‘45?He could probably do a Google search and find out. The thought occurs to him out of nowhere, and for a second he stops, questioning what a google is before he remembers, smacking his metaphorical forehead.Like he said, it takes a few days.





	1. 2017

**Author's Note:**

> I planned out this entire fic on a six hour coach journey, and so far I've enjoyed writing every second of it, so i hope you all enjoy it! Title is taken from the song Past Lives by Borns, which I've listened to for about three weeks on repeat, and heavily inspired this fic.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [findthefanfic](http://findthefanfic.tumblr.com)

Bucky jolts awake, sitting bolt upright in bed, sheets pooled around his bare waist. His breathing, fast and shallow, begins to slow as he lets the memories wash over him, coming at him in waves. A birthday party when he was six, a summer spent by a lake, school exams and college dorms and all kinds of things. He waits for it to pass, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. He knows now not to fight it. Let it wash over him, and then move on. 

When he can finally blink without seeing flashes of his past behind his eyes, he reaches for the phone on the bedside table. Memories tell him that it’s his phone. It always takes him a day or to get into the swing of it, when he wakes up for the first time. He has to get situated, shake off the feeling of being someone else, a pretender trying to adapt to Bucky Barnes’ life. He isn’t a pretender, he’s himself. He just so happens to be realizing it.

His phone tells him that it’s 2017, and for a moment that surprises him. Flopping back in bed, he tries to remember the last date, the last one he can remember from that old life - December? No, maybe not. It was cold and snowy, but that didn’t make it winter time. It was late, though. Late in the war, not in the year, and he scratches the top of his head as he thinks. ‘44? ‘45?

He could probably do a Google search and find out. The thought occurs to him out of nowhere, and for a second he stops, questioning what a google is before he remembers, smacking his metaphorical forehead.

Like he said, it takes a few days.

He checks his phone because he might as well. That’s what he normally does on a morning, right? Wakes up, checks his phone, gets out of bed, showers, eats breakfast, and goes to work. Where does he work?

Right - Stark Industries. He does something with technology. A developer, his mind supplies. He thanks himself, mentally, and then gets out of bed.

Once he’s managed to shake the feeling of being someone else, finally settling in his own skin, he starts to think about Steve. He always thinks about Steve, because the one universal constant in the cosmic joke that has been his very long, seemingly unending but every so often interrupted existence is Steve Rogers and the loss of Steve Rogers.

At least Bucky had been the first to go, last time.

He pushes the thought away, not quite sure where it comes from. He hasn’t remembered that part yet. It comes, in dribs and drabs. Funnily enough, he can always remember the time before that crystal clear. When he had woken up in 1912, he had remembered, almost perfectly, his life in 1750. Funny, he thinks. Like the banks the memories, hits save, so that maybe he loses a few memories from last time before he remembers the rest.

Like a video game, his mind supplies, the part of it that has always lived in this body. He remembers. Nods to himself. Like a video game, he agrees.

But Steve - where could he be? Bucky wonders about it as he tinkers with something on his desk - a virtual reality headset, again supplied by the part of his mind that is keeping up with this shit - his head tilted. At least, usually, they aren’t too far apart. They have at least always been in the same place, never more than a mile or so from each other, and there is always something to bring them together. He just has to wait for the _something_.

At lunchtime he goes out, feet leading the way to a sandwich shop just across the block just across from one of the NYU buildings - there’s a protest going on, a group of student-types standing around with posters, handing out flyers, one of them standing on a podium and shouting something through a megaphone that Bucky can’t hear.

It hits him like a punch to the gut. One of the protesters, looking a little older than the rest, blonde hair appearing from beneath a gray beanie, square glasses framing his eyes, hands flyers to people passing by. His cheeks are red, the tip of his nose too - it’s February, Bucky reminds himself. February is cold - and it’s Steve. It’s Steve, standing on the other side of the street, so close Bucky can almost taste him.

Before he knows what he’s doing he’s crossing the street, ignoring the honking from the yellow cabs and the shouts of angry drivers. He doesn’t even look, his gaze on Steve, his Steve, wrapped in a jacket that looks in-style but old, wearing boots that are too big and too worn.

“Hey--” he says once he reaches him, marvelling at his own ability to speak to him. To _Steve_. “What’s all this about?” Bucky asks, gesturing to the protests around them.

“They want to bring that asshole Alexander Pierce to our campus,” Steve answers, handing Bucky a flyer. He looks at it, looks at the words and the images. Racist, sexist, anti-LGBT. His brain helpfully supplying the rest: Alexander Pierce. He’s a senator, but Bucky isn’t sure of where. He’s a businessman, some kind of CEO, and the type of guy you wouldn’t be surprised was actually a lizard in a human suit. “We’re protesting to get them to stop it. Entire school’s at a standstill.”

Bucky looks at Steve, looks at him properly, and his stomach twists. Steve is so fierce looking, so outspoken. This is the Steve he’s always known, but the Steve that he was never allowed to be, not outside of wherever they were living. He doesn’t look as sick as he normally does, he doesn’t look like he’s on death’s door. The 21st century is a good look for Steve, and Bucky doesn’t want to look away.

“Need any help?” He asks and is met with a dazzling grin.

“Hand these out,” Steve says, splitting the pile of flyers in half. “Don’t take no for an answer.”

Bucky gives a nod and gets to work.

 

~*~

 

Forty-five minutes later, he remembers to call his boss. Luckily, he’s on good terms with Mr. Tony Stark. Something in the back of his mind tells him it was a college thing (they didn’t go together, no, but they met there, somehow) but he doesn’t question it.

“Tony? I can’t come back into the office, there’s been an emergency--”

“Oh?” Tony asks, and Bucky can tell he isn’t buying it. He doesn’t need to see his face. “What kind of emergency?”

“My ma, she’s sick--” Bucky begins, but Tony interrupts him.

“Winifred Barnes is fine, and I know that because I talked to her like, last week.” He says, and Bucky winces. “I can see you from my office window, Barnes,” Tony says, and then his voice softens. “Go fight the man. I’ll expect overtime from you tomorrow.”

The phone goes dead, and Bucky grins, slipping it back into his pocket.

 

~*~

 

Everyone breaks up and goes home at about midnight. New York never sleeps but the protestors do, and so after congratulating each other on a good day, they all go their separate ways. Steve puts the rest of the flyers into his backpack and looks to Bucky. “Thank you.” He says and smiles. “For helping.”

Bucky nods. The protest group has been good to him through the day - he’s had more coffee breaks and sit downs than he can count. He isn’t tired like he should be after a half day on his feet; he’s wired, every inch of him feeling electric next to Steve.

“Least I could do.” He murmurs, and then he bites his lip. “Where you headed now, then?”

“Home, I think.” Steve answers. “Pretty sure I have a half a sandwich I can have for dinner before I pass out.”

“What if-- what if I bought you dinner?” Bucky asks, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything else; he doesn’t want to ruin it. 

Steve looks at him, eyes wide behind those square frames, and he smiles a little. “Sure.” He says. “I’d like that.”

 

~*~

 

There’s a diner just down the street that’s still open. It’s pretty much empty, the lighting soft and inviting. Steve seems to know the woman behind the bar, in her early twenties, preppier than any person Bucky has ever met.

“Want your normal booth, Steve?” She asks, and he nods.

“Please, Angie,” he says, and he smiles gently. “Usual order, too. Cheeseburger and fries?” He asks, this time looking to Bucky, who nods. 

“And two vanilla milkshakes,” Bucky adds and smiles.

Angie grins, not even bothering to write the order as she moves back around behind the counter to tell the chef. A silence settles between Bucky and Steve, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels amiable, not awkward, but Bucky decides to break it anyway.

“So - do you do this kind of thing often?” he asks.

Steve laughs softly, taking off his fingerless gloves and his beanie, revealing a crop of blonde hair, long on the top but shaved at the sides. The style nowadays, Bucky tells himself. He was a little surprised to find his own hair long, the longest it had been since the first time--

“When I have to.” He says. “NYU is pretty good, though. We don’t normally have to protest shit.”

Bucky chuckles. “So you’re a student there?” He asks. “Sorry, just - you look a little old. Not in a bad way, just--”

“No, no - I understand. I’m a grad student.” Steve explains, looking up and thanking Angie when she returns with their milkshakes. “I got myself an art degree. Worked as a freelance artist for a few years and then decided that more student debt might be worth it in the long run.”

Bucky isn’t surprised. Steve has always been an artist. He was the first time, drawing wrens and sparrows in his spare time, in a little booklet that he kept in his back pocket, a piece of charcoal wrapped in a handkerchief always on hand. Last time he had been a professional artist, he had gone to a school and everything. Bucky had been so proud of him.

He’s proud of him now, the feeling swelling in his chest. “So what is it you do now?”

“Art History and Conservation. I had a year in Paris, last year, working at the Louvre, maintaining the works and stuff like that. I loved it, but I think I want to stay closer to home, once I graduate, y’know?” He looks at Bucky, and he blushes. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story.”

“No - no, please. Go on. It’s interesting.” Bucky says, and he smiles, pillowing his head on his hand.

They talk until the early hours of the morning, long after their plates have been cleared and their glasses emptied. Steve tells Bucky about his time in Paris, his hopes to work at the Met, his life as a freelance artist. “There was a point where all I was eating was like, those cans of beans with the little hot dogs in them.” He says, and Bucky laughs. Steve laughs with him. “That was the last straw.”

Bucky tells him about his job at Stark Industries, at his time at college all the way down in Florida, about his the year out he took. It’s like a refresher course for him, too; he’s almost as surprised as Steve is by it all.

“Wow - jeez. I should be getting home; I have a seminar tomorrow.” Steve blinks, looking at his phone. 

Bucky looks at his and winces. “Yeah - I owe my boss overtime.” He murmurs, flagging down Angie for the bill. As he pays (using a card, which he doesn’t even have to do anything with, just touches it against the reader and takes the receipt) he looks at Steve and smiles. He doesn’t want tonight to be over. “I’ll walk you home?”

They walk together, each with hands in their pockets, talking about New York, and about Brooklyn. They had both grown up there but had moved to Manhattan for various reasons. “Doesn’t feel quite like home, but at least it’s not New Jersey,” Steve says, with a seriousness that makes Bucky laugh.

At the door to a high-built brownstone, Steve stops and looks at Bucky. “I had a really nice time tonight. You’re a good guy, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles, feeling heat begin to pool in his cheeks. “Not so bad yourself.” He says.

He wants to kiss him. He wants to grip Steve tightly and beg him not to leave. He wants to hold him, love him. 

Instead, he smiles. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.” Steve murmurs. “Here.” He says, taking a pen from his pocket, pushing at Bucky’s coat sleeve so he can scribble a number down onto his skin. “Text me, when you get home. Let me know you didn’t die out on the wild streets of the Upper East Side.”

Bucky grins, and he nods. “I will.” He says. He pauses, and then he begins to walk back down the steps. Steve disappears inside, and Bucky walks home, adding the number into his phone.

 

~*~

 

He texts Steve once he gets home, tells him that he didn’t die.

_Nearly got carried off by a pack of stray tourists, but I survived_. He adds, grinning a little to himself.

His phone buzzes only a moment later. _Very glad to hear it. Does that mean we can go out again next week?_

Bucky bites his lip, smiling at his darkened ceiling. _Where to this time?_

_Central Park Zoo? Saturday?_

_Sure. 1pm?_

_Perfect_

Bucky smiles. He wonders if he should say anything else. _Goodnight, Steve._ He types. He sends it.

_Goodnight, Bucky_ comes the replies.

With a smile on his lips, Bucky locks his phone and turns over, trying for sleep.

 

~*~

He dreams of Steve. 

He dreams of late nights in Brooklyn summers, all the windows open, no sheets on either of them. They sleep tangled in one another because, despite the heat, they can’t bear to be separated.

He dreams of sunrises over the bow of the ship, the two of them watching, breathing in the salty sea air. 

He dreams of barricades and gunpowder, a tricolor flag and shouts of revolution. He dreams of Steve clambering to the top of the hastily piled up furniture, aiming, firing, rejoicing.

He dreams of a gunshot, and a woman in a white dress dropping a pistol to the floor. He dreams of Steve, falling along with it, blood staining his shirt as the life drains from his eyes.

He wakes up, panting, reaching. He wishes Steve was here, the Steve he knows from this time. He turns his lamp back on, pinching the bridge of his nose. Bucky knows he won’t get back to sleep tonight. He might as well embrace it.

~*~

He finds Steve by the Sea Lions, a scarf wrapped sucurely around his neck, hiding all but his eyes. He pulls it down when Bucky approaches, tucking it beneath his chin. “Hey - little cold out today, huh?”

“A little.” Bucky nods. He holds a pair of gloves out to Steve, this pair with actual fingers in them. “I brought these, in case you wanted them. I don’t think an artist can be very successful without any fingertips.”

Steve chuckles and takes the gloves. “Thank you.” He says, putting his original pair in his pocket. “Oo, warm.”

“Right?” Bucky grins. He turns, looking at the enclosure in front of them. “These your favorite?” He asks.

“No,” Steve says, turning as well. He stands close to Bucky, their arms brushing. “I like the red pandas. Wanna see?"

“Lead the way.” Bucky grins, his hand on the small of Steve’s back.

 

~*~

 

Steve takes him to see the red pandas and the snow leopards. He chats excitedly about a project he did in his sophomore year, trying to capture the movement of all these different animals, learning to draw their fur patterns, doing his best to capture the hues of their eyes and their fur. Bucky listens, enthralled. Steve looks to him every so often, to check that he’s still interested. Bucky is, always. He urges Steve to keep talking.

Eventually, they come to the penguin house. The two of them stand and watch as a variety of birds jump in and out of the water, swimming close to the glass, eyeing those who eye them.

“Okay,” Bucky says, a little in awe of it all. “This is my favorite.”

Steve grins. “I used to spend hours in here when it was raining,” Steve says. “They’re not my favorites, but - it’s pretty relaxing.”

They stand there for a while longer before they decide that a coffee is needed; not at the zoo, though. As Steve puts it: “I’m not made of money.”

Instead, they go back to that diner, shedding layers as they slide into Steve’s (and now Bucky’s) favorite booth.

“Just coffee, Angie.” Steve smiles, looking to Bucky. “Same for me.” Bucky nods, looking to Angie with a smile.

“Coming up, boys.” She grins as she leaves. Bucky’s sure she wiggles her eyebrows at Steve, and by the way, Steve blushes, Bucky guesses he was correct. When Angie comes back she sets down coffee and creamer in front of them both, giving them a wink. “Coffee, for the cutest couple in here.”

They both laugh as she leaves, disappearing behind the counter.

“Sorry about her,” Steve says, reaching for the sugar at the side of the table. “I haven’t done much dating, so - she’s excited for me.”

“So that’s what this is?” Bucky grins, teasing.

Steve blinks, blushing once again. “Well, I mean--”

“Because I was hoping it was.” Bucky continues, watching Steve deflate. He smiles. “I don’t stay up until midnight handing out flyers for just anyone.”

Steve grins. “I was very grateful for that.” He says. 

Bucky adds some creamer to his coffee, and a little sugar, before taking a sip. Coffee is better now than it used to be, he remarks. He doesn’t say it out loud.

He can’t say it out loud.

They chat for a little while longer, laughing, joking. It feels so effortless, so easy. Steve isn’t going home, he says - he has to go to a friend’s house, for a birthday. After a long moment of looking at Bucky, he asks, “Want to come?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. “Sure.”

 

~*~

 

The friend in question is Sam Wilson. He’s a nice guy - he looks presently surprised when Steve shows up with Bucky at his heels, and he welcomes him in with open arms, so to speak. He introduces him to the group. There’s Natasha, and a girl called Sharon. Another girl called Peggy - “Angie’s girlfriend”, Steve supplies - and a guy called Riley. There are a few other people milling around, family and friends, but Steve tells him that those lot are the ‘gang’. 

Bucky doesn’t mind. He gets along with all of them well.

They play drinking games and eat cake, Bucky never leaving Steve’s side, Steve never leaving his. They learn who’s done it in public and who’s done it under the stars in Never Have I Ever, and watch Natasha flash a passer-by during Truth or Dare. It’s fun, and it’s natural. As easy as breathing.

At the end of the night, when they’re both a little tipsy and clinging to one another, Steve looks at Bucky, and breathes, “Take me home?”

Bucky does. They barely make it through the front door before Steve is pushing Bucky out of his coat, Bucky grappling with Steve’s scarf, the two of them dropping their clothes and leaving them where they lie on the way to the bedroom.

When Bucky has Steve on his back, naked and wanting, Steve wraps his arms around his neck, blue eyes full of intent.

“Don’t leave.” Steve murmurs, leaning up to kiss him.

“Never,” Bucky replies. He means it more than Steve can know.

 

~*~

 

Steve lies asleep on his chest, Bucky’s arm around him, feeling the soft rise and fall of his chest. This is something he only has recent memories of; this is still new, still fresh. He’s still learning every curve of Steve’s body, and he doesn’t mind it, not one bit. 

He just wishes he could tell him. He looks at Steve, dreaming, snuffling peacefully, and Bucky wishes he could tell him about it all. The first time they met, the second, the third, the fourth. He wishes he could tell Steve about all of the lifetimes they have lived together, all of the places they’ve been, all of the things they’ve seen, together.

But he can’t. Because telling Steve is what breaks it all apart. Or, at least, Steve remembering is. When Steve remembers, that’s when they get shot or drown or--

That’s when it ends, and Bucky wakes up again, alone.

 

~*~

 

Sixth months later, Steve asks him to move in.

“I thought since you said the lease that your apartment was up soon--”

“Stevie, I’d love to.” Bucky smiles, brushing Steve’s hair back out of his face, a soft smile on his lips. “You’re apartment is nicer than mine, anyways.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say it,” Steve says with a teasing smile, leaning up on his tiptoes to kiss Bucky, arms wrapping around his neck. “I love you, Bucky.

“I love you too, Steve.”

 

~*~

 

The 21st century has its perks.

They can walk down the street hand in hand. They can kiss, and hug each other, and sure a few people give them dirty looks but mostly, no one cares. No one’s going to report them to the police, or their local priest. They aren’t going to be hung or shot or thrown in prison. It’s good. It’s freeing.

“You going to marry that boy?” Stark asks one day, a little while after Bucky and Steve moved in together. Steve had stopped by his desk to bring him lunch and make sure he was okay, knowing Bucky had been working hard on the new Stark Phone lately. 

Bucky looks at his boss and blushes a little bit. He can’t hide his grin, though he tries, looking down at his shoes. “I’d sure as hell like to.”

“Do it.” Stark nods. “For the tax break, if nothing else.”

Bucky chuckles at that, going back to his work as Stark moves to go back to his office on the floor above.

“You two make a beautiful couple!” He calls from the elevator, and Bucky grins, not even trying to hide his smile now. “Think of how gorgeous your children would be!”

The doors close, and Bucky doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon.

 

~*~

“We’ve never talked about it, have we?”

“Hm?” Bucky hums, half asleep. It’s just after two in the morning, and they’ve just returned from the engagement party of some guy at Bucky’s office. They had left a little early, handsy and unable to keep their mouths off of each other, until they had fallen into bed and gotten it out of their system, one way or another.

“Getting married,” Steve says, looking up at Bucky, his head pillowed on Bucky’s chest. “I know it’s not even been a year yet, but… gotta know we’re on the same page, right?”

“I suppose.” Bucky nods. He runs his hand over Steve’s side, fingers trailing over his skin. “Do you want to get married?”

“I think I’d like to.” Steve murmurs, looking at Bucky, blue eyes honest and hopeful. “I know it’s just a piece of paper, or whatever, but I think it’s kind of… sweet. Having someone that’s yours, for life, and having a ring to prove it. Getting to take somebody else’s name. I guess it’s just… nice.”

“You old romantic.” Bucky grins, leaning down to kiss him. 

“Have you thought about it?” Steve asks, ignoring his little aside, though he seems to have mellowed with Bucky’s lips against his.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Bucky admits, feeling Steve shift a little beneath his hand. “Until I met you,” he adds softly, running his fingers through Steve’s hair. “I’ll marry you one day, Stevie.”

“One day.” Steve agrees, shuffling up a little so he can kiss Bucky, the two of them grinning as they lean into one another.

 

~*~

 

They’re curled up on the sofa, huddled under a blanket as they nap, a tangle of limbs. Bucky is only dozing, half asleep when he feels Steve tense against him, frowning in his sleep. He wakes slowly, and Bucky watches through half-closed eyes as Steve runs a hand through his hair, frowning still.

“This isn’t the first time.” he murmurs, and Bucky’s heart stops. His eyes open fully, looking at Steve, who looks confused, frightened. 

“What?” he murmurs.

“This isn’t the first time,” Steve repeats, and he reaches for Bucky, a hand settled against bucky’s chest. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been together.”

“Stevie,” Bucky whispers. His voice wavers, caught between fear and joy.

Steve smiles, slowly. “I remember, Bucky.” He leans down to kiss him, arms around Bucky’s neck. “I remember you. Every you.”

Bucky’s breath hitches in his throat, tears pricking his eyes. Steve embraces him, and so Bucky clings to him, fingers gripping him tightly. Maybe if he holds on tight enough, the universe won’t be able to take Steve away from him.

Steve’s voice is soft in his ear, full of joy, trembling just a little. “I remember.”

Bucky begins to smile, giving a watery sounding laugh. The smile falls from his face as the fire alarm begins to sound, and smoke begins to fill the room.


	2. 1765

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was perfect, as far as James could tell. A crop of blonde hair hiding blue eyes that at first had been defensive, but had warmed to James the longer the two had spent together. 
> 
> It was so easy for James to fall in love with him, but it made his chest ache. He couldn't be in love with Steven. They could be thrown in prison or worse, and he couldn't bare to think of that, not for his own sake, but for his love's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the tags for this one, make sure you check them out for any trigger warnings!

 "James - Constance is here to see you."

James looks up from the piano he had been sat at, and he closes the lid carefully, standing and rearranging his breaches and his coat before he moves to leave the room. He ignores the disapproving eye of his mother as he walks past her - he knows that music is a woman's hobby, but that doesn't make him like it any less.

Constance is in the drawing room, looking prim and pretty and her robe à l'anglaise (she had told him before what the style of the dress was called, and he had remembered only because he thought it was ridiculous that something which translated into "English dress" wasn't said in english), the floral pattern matching the flowers that had come into bloom just outside the window.

"James," She smiles, wisps of dark hair falling into her face as she steps forward. James knows what he has to do, taking her hand and kissing it. He doesn't necessarily want to, but what he wants doesn't matter. 

It was never his idea to marry Connie (which she insisted on being called by James because it probably seemed less like he hated her if he did). If it were up to him, he'd likely travel for a while, educate himself in matters abroad, over in France and across Europe. He might travel to America, see what Jamestown or Florida had to offer. 

But no - he was to marry Connie, provide some kind of stable household for his sisters to live in, should they ever need it.

"Perhaps the two of you should take a walk." His mother says, taking Connie's hand and attaching it to James's arm. "The spring air will do you both some good, and it'll be nice to catch up."

James gives a smile that feels like a grimace, nodding silently as he leaves the house, his bride-to-be in tow.

He doesn't want to be mean to Connie. It wounds him every time he sees the hurt flash in her eyes when he's too curt or too abrupt with her and she frowns to herself, not knowing what she's done. The worst of it is that, in truth, she's done nothing. She's just the ball and chain that his mother is shackling to his ankle - she isn't the one doing the shackling.

For a while, they walk, and Connie regales him with tails of her time abroad. She had recently been to Paris, to stay with an aunt she had over here that someone had an in at court. He was only half listening, humming and nodding in the appropriate moments as they left the house and entered the stable yard.

His reasons for entering the stable yard were two-fold. One was that it was the fastest way to get away from the house and towards some of the wilder parts of the grounds that the Barnes family held, perfect for walking and talking and not ruining delicate complexions (see, sometimes he did think of Connie). The other reason was a little more selfish; he was hoping to see Steven.

Steven had been hired a good few months before when Connie had just left for France and the previous stable boy had left to travel to America. He was smaller than any stable boy had a right to be, especially considering he was more of a man than a boy, and the only one tending to the four horses that permanently resided at the Barnes residence, but...

He was perfect, as far as James could tell. A crop of blonde hair hiding blue eyes that at first had been defensive, but had warmed to James the longer the two had spent together. 

Horse riding was, thankfully, a hobby his mother approved of for James. Up until the news of Connie's return, he had been down to the stables every day, watching Steven muck out and tack up the horses, watching how easily he worked with them. He was almost half their size but he had a bond with them, despite the little time he had spent with them.

It was so easy for James to fall in love with him, but it made his chest ache. He couldn't be in love with Steven. They could be thrown in prison or worse, and he couldn't bare to think of that, not for his own sake, but for his love's.

Connie continues to chatter as they passed Steven. He's tied Molly (the horse of James's youngest sister, 17-year-old Lydia) to a post outside her stall, brushing down her back slowly, murmuring to her in soft tones. When he hears Connie come by he stopped and turned to look, gaze lingering on the two of them. Connie pays him no mind, but James can't help himself, meeting Steven's gaze until the other is forced to look away, to soothe the horse that has been spooked by shoes against the cobblestones and a high-pitched voice that babbles non-stop.

James doesn't meet that blue-eyed gaze again, the two of them walking away towards the wildflowers.

 

~*~

 

Connie stays for a cup of tea and then departs with her mother.

"We'll have to get to discussing the wedding, now that we're back for good." Her mother smiles as they stand. James and his mother, Winifred, stand too, of course.

James feels sick, as he normally does when his impending matrimony is brought up, but he tries for a smile. He doesn't need to speak - his mother does it for him.

"Of course, of course. Next week, we'll come visit you. Once you have the house put to rights again." She says, to which Connie's mother nods. They leave, their carriage trundling up the drive until it's out of sight.

James hesitates for approximately a second before turning to his mother. "I think I'm going to go for a ride, before dinner." He says. "Catch a little more air."

His mother nods approvingly - she loves the thought of him getting fresh air, being out of the house, practicing more manly pursuits than reading and playing instruments. "Go on," She urges him. "Don't be too long."

He gives a little nod and heads out to the stables. Of course, 'getting some air' isn't exactly the purpose behind his actions, but it is part of it. His mother will be insufferable for the next few hours with the wedding and Connie and all the rest of it. He would handle her at dinner when he had had some time to clear his head.

For now, he's off to see Steven.

He's taken Molly back into her stall and replaced her with James's horse, Zeus, tied up and waiting for Steven to get on with his bath.

"Good timing," James smiles, striding towards the pair. From here, he knows, he can be seen from the house. Inside the stable, that's where he can't be seen, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have to be careful. "I was going to take him out if you don't have other plans for him."

Steven looks up at James as he approaches, looking him briefly up and down. "I was going to clean him up, but if you're taking him out there's no point," Steven says. He's curt, to the point. It cuts into Bucky's core like a knife. "I'll get him tacked."

He moves away, into the stable, and James follows him. He catches Steve's hand, brow furrowed. "Stevie." He murmurs, hoping the pet name will soothe him. Upon meeting, Steven had asked to be called Steve, not Steven, if they were to be friends. James had said if that were the case, then _Steve_ should call him _Bucky_.

"My middle name is Buchanan." James had explained, with a wry smile.

"It's unique." Steven had responded. "I like it."

Now, though, Steven looks at him with a hard gaze, one James has never seen before. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it one bit.

"So that was her," Steven says, and it isn't a question. Her, of course, is Connie. They had rarely talked about her because James didn't want to talk about her. Frankly, he still doesn't. When he's with Steven, things are different. He can imagine a life where the two of them can be happy together, somewhere, away from James' mother and the house that suffocates him, and the girl that calls on it thinking that someday she might be a bride. 

"She's pretty," Steven adds, and James' face twists.

He knows that Connie is pretty. She's somewhat petty, shallow, but girls with money always are, James has come to find. In truth, of all the women his mother could have foisted upon him, Connie actually isn't the worst. She would probably make a good wife and a good mother. She would be attentive, the kind of wife that made marriage a partnership, not a man with a woman attached to his shadow.

But James just isn't interested. Since he's met Steven, he's only been interested in one person.

"I know," James says.

Steven looks at him evenly. "She seems nice."

"She is." James allows. He knows Steven will hate him if he tries to lie.

"She'll be a good wife," Steven adds, eventually, and tugs his arm from James' grip.

James moves to catch up with him. "Maybe, but she won't be mine." Now he stops Steven with his hands on his shoulders, looking down at him with fire in his eyes. "She won't be my wife because I don't want a wife. I want you."

"You know that can't happen." Steven tries to push, to move forward. James holds fast. "We'd be put in prison or worse if anyone found out."

"Who says they have to find out? Who says they even would?" James says, leaning down now, his face close to Steven's. "We could live a life together, Stevie."

Steven looks at him for a long, long time, and then shakes his head. "We couldn't." He murmurs. This time, when he pushes, James lets him go.

~*~

The next time Connie visits, James and Steven are already out on a ride. When Steve was hired, he wasn't aware he would be riding the horses as well as handling them, but as his sisters grew up and his mother grew old, their horses sat in their stalls more and more. Their paddock was big, but the horses needed exercise: that was where Steven came in.

It was how they had gotten to know each other, how they had fallen in love. Rides out further and further away from the house, to shaded areas where they could talk and not be seen, where they could kiss and touch and not have to worry about being found out.

Rides clear the air between them. It's working now, the two of them riding in silence for the first few minutes, slowly breaking into a conversation as they go. The ice thaws between them. Steven becomes more like the man James knows, his Stevie.

They stop in one of the wheat fields, close to a small stream. Whilst the two of them rest, lying back in the grass, the horses take a drink. It's peaceful. The sky is blue, speckled with clouds. They take turns pointing to them, comparing them to things, animals and shapes, and objects.

"It looks like a cat." James insists, pointing to one cloud.

Steven laughs, hands resting on his stomach. They lie close together, close enough that James can feel him when he moves when his chest rises and falls. 

"Are we looking at the same one? It looks like a fish," he argues, drawing a laugh out of James now.

They don't hear Connie approach, the sound of hooves falling against the earth muted by their laughter. It's her voice that shocks them both to sit up, almost knocking their heads together in the process.

"Your mother said I might find you out here-- with your... stableboy?" She says, her bright smile fading. She evidently hadn't intended on a ride today. She isn't in the right clothes, and she's using one of James' sister's horses. Who tacked it for her, James isn't sure, but he wishes they hadn't.

"I thought I'd join you." She adds, now sounding a little more sure of herself. The horse shifts beneath her, tail flicking. James stands and offers a hand for Steven to help him up. 

"We were just about to head back, actually," James says, as Steve goes to gather the horses from their resting place by the stream. "I'm sorry, my mother didn't tell me you were coming."

"It was a surprise visit," Connie replies. Her smile seems - strained. James doesn't know why. "But it seems you surprised me."

James gives a smile that feels misshapen, taking Zeus's reigns from Steve's hand. 

Steve pulls himself up into the saddle and looks between the two of them. "You two should carry on." He says, looking fleetingly at Connie, gaze settling on James. "I'll go back, have the stalls ready for your return."

James wants to argue. He doesn't want to go on a ride with Connie. He doesn't want to spend any time with her, in fact, and he doesn't want to her to ruin what was a perfectly nice day with Steven.

But he nods, trying not to look too hurt, or annoyed. "Of course." He climbs up into the saddle, and gives Steven a nod - he doesn't say goodbye before he goes, leaving James to lead Connie along the trail.

~*~

 

Steven draws. It's a secret James has only recently learned, and one he loves.

He has a little book, hidden away. When there's nothing to do (which is rare but does sometimes happen) and he thinks no one is watching (they often aren't), he sits on the paddock fence and sketches with a piece of charcoal. There are portraits of the horses, a few drawings of wrens and starlings and other small birds.

There's one of James, his eyes cast down and his lips turned up in a smile.

For that, Steven receives a kiss. James wishes he could keep it, but he knows it must be a secret, as with everything good.

~*~

 

One day, Connie finds James at the piano.

She waits in the doorway like she doesn't want to disturb him, but James can see her out of the corner of his eye. Her mother has never mentioned any musical talents, so James can only assume she has none. 

She doesn't look very approving.

There were many men who drew and sang and danced and played instruments, and no one batted an eyelid. But James' household was too closed minded for that. For someone to be allowed to do something they actually wanted to do.

James carries on playing and hopes that she leaves. After a little while, she does.

~*~

On a day when the weather is mild, the sun shining and a light breeze blowing through the fields, James' mother decides that the horses should be tacked, a picnic made, and they should all go for a picnic. All, of course, being James and his mother and sisters (only two, this time - Rebecca had been out visiting a friend, a privilege of being a grown woman), and Connie, and her mother. 

James is, of course, thrilled.

He tries not to sulk too much as he walks through to the stable, taking his horse from Steven with a gentle thank you. Steven gives him a small nod, his eyes soft, understanding.

"Winifred--" Connie says, settled in the saddle of her own horse, watching the rest of them as they go about their business. There's a glint in her eyes that James doesn't recognize. "Perhaps Steven should come with us, in case we have any issues? So many horses, we're bound to run into trouble."

"I'm sure we'll be fine," James says, his voice a little hard. "Steven has work to do."

Winifred considers both arguments. "Well, there is a spare horse. Alright, Steven. You may as well come along."

Steven looks like he wants to disappear into the shadows, or fall down a deep, dark hole. Instead, he turns away, murmuring a soft 'yes ma'am' as he goes to tack Rebecca's horse. It's that or his job, and he knows it.

They go to a different spot, where the stream is a little wider and the shade a little thicker. Their horses are tied to a nearby fence, and Steve lingers by them, sitting up against it. He's sketching - James can see that, but no one else is really looking. Or at least, that's what he thinks.

"You keep looking at him," Connie says, and James turns back around to look at her. "Why?"

"I - I'm not." James lies, not as well as he'd like. "I was looking at Zeus. I thought he had a bit of a limp on the way over, I'm trying to see if something's wrong."

Connie must accept that because she questions it no more. James looks down at the grass in front of him, wishing Connie would go and play in the stream with Elizabeth and Lydia, or go and sit a few feet away by the oak tree with their mothers. He wishes Connie would leave him be.

"What is he doing?" She asks, curious. James looks up and over to Steve to find him still sketching.

"He must be writing a note," James says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

Connie scoffs. "Does he even know how to write? I thought all the poor were illiterate, and he doesn't seem like the brightest spark."

James looks up at her, glaring. He has so much that he wants to say, about how smart Steven is, and kind. About how Connie isn't as nice as she seems, not as pretty either, not up close.

He doesn't.

He just moves.

"Excuse me." He grits out, moving over to where the horses are lined up, flicking their tails and huffing softly.

Steven looks up at James as he approaches, frowning softly. "What's going on?" He asks.

James keeps his voice low. "Pretend to look over Zeus for me, before I run away from that woman forever."

Steven's lips twitch into a smile, but he stands regardless, moving to Zeus's back leg. The two of them pretend to look it over, chatting softly and quietly, faces serious.

Across the field, Connie watches them and quietly seethes. 

~*~

Connie was staying the night. Their little jaunt out to the stream had ended in a very quiet ride between James and Connie - James didn't want to look at her, let alone speak to her, and so he didn't. 

At the little tea parties his mother throws for them, he stands by the window rather than sitting at the table. His mother hates him for it, but James can't bear to sit down. Other than saying hello and goodbye he says nothing to her, jaw clenched whenever he has to be in the same room with her.

It's at night that James visits Steven. The horses generally don't rest until dark, which is always later, in the summer months. James goes out with the pretense of helping him fetch them in from the paddock, excusing himself from the dinner table.

They laugh as they work, chattering as they get the stalls bedded and ready for the night. They always keep a few lanterns lit in case Steven needs to run out in the middle of the night. It feels nice. Intimate.

When the work is one and the lights from inside the house have dwindled one by one, James and Steve finally rest. They sit among the hay bails at the far end of the stable, where James knows they can't be seen. He leans in and kisses him, gently, his hand on Steve's neck, Steven's hand moving to cup his cheek. They haven't done this in so long. They haven't had the chance, James always under the watchful eyes of Connie or his mother. He's missed Steven, and it shows.

"I knew it."

The voice breaks the two of them apart, and they both stand. Connie stands in the middle of the stables, dressed in her nightgown. She would look like a vision, some kind of angel, the lamplight making a halo around her dark hair, if it weren't for the pistol in her shaking hands.

"Connie," James says, standing. He puts himself in front of Steven, one arm out to hold him back.

Connie's face twists. "Don't call me that."

"Connie." He says again, taking a step forward. Steve doesn't move, and James is grateful. "Connie put the weapon down."

"I would've made you a good wife. We could've had a nice house, and children." She says. She's crying. "We could have been happy."

"We couldn't have, Connie." James begins softly, shaking his head. 

"I know that now." She sneers. "I should have suspected. A boy who draws and one who plays. But now that I know you're--"

"He's not anything," Steven says, pushing past James to stand in the middle of them. "It's my fault, Constance. If you have to hate someone, hate me."

"Oh, I do." She says, and she swallows thickly. The pistol in her hand is pointed right at Steven, and James can't move, he can't think. "I hate you."

After that, it all happens very, very quickly. The gunshot startles the horses, who kick their stable doors and whinny at the tops of their voices. Steve's body hits the dusty ground with a dull thud. A second later, James falls to his knees.

"No, no, no--" He says, his eyes wet. He pulls Steven to him. His shirt stains red as they blood spreads, out from his chest. "Stevie--"

"James," He gasps, lips red at the edges, tainted with his own blood. His blue eyes, usually so full of life, so bright, are far away now. "James." He says once more.

"I'm here." James gasps, hugging him tightly. "Stevie I'm here, I'm right here, I promise, Stevie." He doesn't notice when Steven goes limp, or when the hitching of his chest stops. "Stevie, don't leave, don't leave me--"

But he's gone. He's gone, and James can only think of one thing.

Connie stands in the middle of the stable, her eyes wide, surprised, maybe. Scared. But not sorry. James is on his knees, and he stumbles to his feet, moving towards.

"Shoot me." He begs. "Take the shot. Shoot me. Please. Please--"

The horses rear up, and there's the sound of the front door being flung open. James twists as he hits the floor, his chest feeling warm and cold all at the same time. He takes Steven's hand, looks into his eyes.

"I'll be with you soon, Stevie. I'll be with you soon, don't leave me."

His vision fades, colors turning to black. He hears his mother cry out, and then he's gone, fading, a flash of white light the last things he really registers.


	3. 1832

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he can say anything, a realization hits him. Steve doesn't look at him with any kind of longing, not even like he particularly knows him. Steve looks at him the same way as he looks at every man in the room except now, it's more quizzical because James has been standing for a good thirty seconds and hasn't said anything yet.
> 
> Steve doesn't remember.
> 
> James clears his throat. Shakes it off. "What do we do?"

James wakes in a bed he doesn't know, jolting back to life, memories flashing before his eyes. Cobbled streets and a woman in a gray dress (his mother), riots and a tricolor flag. He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, panicked. This isn't his room, and he doesn't know who those memories belong to, he doesn't understand. 

The room is a modest size, smaller than his own, at home. He must be in some kind of hospital, or sanitarium because the only things in the room are the bed he sits on, pushed up against the corner, and a chest of drawers at the other end, a lit candle sitting atop it. There's a window, and outside he can see that the sky is dark, the moon hanging low in the night sky. He stands, about to go and look out of it when there's a knock at the door, causing him to jolt. Through the wood, a deep, throaty sounding voice says, "Jacques. Nous avons une réunion, allons-y."

French. James doesn't speak French except that he must do because he understood every word.

_James. We have a meeting, let's go._

"One minute," James calls back, in French, too. He isn't sure where it comes from, but he doesn't fight it. The man on the other side of the door might think it strange if he answers in English.

He looks down and realizes that he isn't dressed. His first thought is to head for the chest of drawers, opening them all one by one. The clothes are foreign, not his, but they all seem the right size. They're a fashion he doesn't recognize at first, but which comes back to him quickly. He knows to change his shirt, to layer it with a dark, navy blue waistcoat. A change of pants and a pair of shoes, and he's out the door.

He doesn't know what meeting, except that he does. A meeting of like-minded people, of students, like him. He's a student, apparently, which surprises him, because he's never really been one for formal education. The meetings are a secret, he recalls, and for good reason.

He walks the familiar-yet-unfamiliar halls of the narrow house until he finds Gabriel, the man who had spoken through the door, and Jacques Dernier, his friend. Jacques is the first to spot him. "Ah, here he is - sleeping beauty." He chuckles. "We thought you might've died."

"You would have died if you'd tried to wake me." James laughs, and for a second, it spooks him. Laughing with these men, the men he does and doesn't know seems effortless. 

And then his face falls, because he remembers something, through all of the confusion. He remembers - Steven. Stevie, his Stevie, who had died in his arms. Where is he? If James is here, where is Steven?

He follows Dernier and Gabe towards another shop further up the street, round the back and through the gate to the courtyard, and then down the steps into the cellar. It has windows, but they're useless with the dark outside. The place is lit instead with candles and lanterns, set down in corners and hung from the ceilings. James likes the look of it, actually, and the three men settle into a table in the corner, their usual table, he remembers. 

"We're late starting," Gabe remarks. "Where's Steve? He's meant to be leading tonight."

Steve. Not Steve, not when Gabe says it out loud - _Étienne_ , he says, but James' mind changes the letters, translate it as well as the rest of the sentence - _Steve_. It hits James like a pallet of bricks, and he takes in a shocked, staggered breath. His friends turn to look at him, but he waves them away.

As the minutes' tick by, more and more of their little group begin to wonder where _Étienne_ could be. There must be about twenty men within the room, the majority sitting, some standing. The look around, look at their pocket watches, murmuring amongst themselves until the door bursts open, and there's the _tap tap tap_ of footsteps as they run down the stairs.

And it's Steve, Steve dressed in the right fashion, his hair shorter than James has ever seen it, swept to one side. He's panting, and James wants to offer him water, or pat his back. His face is ashen, and he stands in the clearing at the back end of the cellar, facing the crowd.

"Lamarque is dead."

It sends the entire room into an uproar, voices raising until they're shouting.

Steve's voice cuts through them all. "Enough!"

Silence falls, and James' mind tries to catch up. Lamarque, he remembers, is a champion of the people. Lamarque is the one they were looking to, to begin this revolution, Lamarque who had been ill, for a while. He remembers.

"I apologize for being late." Steve begins, his breathing only now coming under control. "I've spoken to a lot of the other group leaders in the area - his funeral. We're going to use Lamarque's funeral to begin the revolution."

The crowds are silent still, even though, James thinks, that's a prompt for them all to start talking again. Some of them look quietly determined. Others won't raise their eyes from the table top. In the end, it's James who stands, pulling himself to his feet before he's even realized quite what it is that he's doing. Dernier and Gabe turn to look at him, as does Steve, setting those summer-sky blue eyes at him. 

Before he can say anything, a realization hits him. Steve doesn't look at him with any kind of longing, not even like he particularly knows him. Steve looks at him the same way as he looks at every man in the room except now, it's more quizzical because James has been standing for a good thirty seconds and hasn't said anything yet.

Steve doesn't remember.

James clears his throat. Shakes it off. "What do we do?"

~*~

 

The next night, Steve addresses them again. Now they're all crowded around a map, as best that they can be, the streets of Paris sprawling out in front of them in black and white.

"The funeral is set for the 5th," Steve says. His finger lands on the paper, beginning to trace out a route. "The procession will travel along here." His finger stops. James looks at the map and realizes he recognizes the street name. 

What he also realizes is that he's close to Steve, very close. He's pressed against his back, looking at the map over his shoulder. He can feel Steve's body moving with every breath.

He wants to kiss him, but instead, he looks at the map.

"We're going to redirect it," Steve explains, looking up at the other men. He doesn't look up at James, instead looking back down at the map. "To the Place de la Bastille."

"Where the 1789 revolution began," James says, and he smiles, though it fades quickly. 1789, a revolution that began after he was already dead. Because he has come to the conclusion that he must have died, and been resurrected somewhere else. This must be someone else's life that he's stepped into, that he's stolen. Steve, too, except that he's starting to think that Steve doesn't know about it. 

Steve now looks up at him, their faces close when James looks down to meet his gaze, and he grins. "Exactly."

James' stomach fills with butterflies, his mind blank for just a second. He can be upset about his mother and his sisters and all the rest of it later because Steve had smiled at him, grinned like James was the smartest person in the room, the best of the men assembled in that places. With that smile lingering in his memory, it's hard to be upset about a life he never really got to live.

"We redirect it to the Place de la Bastille. If fighting starts - which it will-" Steve gives the group a stern look. James understands. Every member of the party has to be aware of where this little meeting will be going in just a few days time. "-we fall back to here, and we set up a barricade."

"A barricade?" Someone in the crowd asks. James looks, but he doesn't see the culprit. Steve doesn't even look. 

"A barricade." He agrees. "We have men wait here, in the third and fourth stories of the buildings. They push furniture out onto the streets, once all of our men are assembled here. Then, we simply move the furniture until it forms a wall - a barricade."

"We're less than twenty men strong," Gabe says. He's standing across the table, his waistcoat loose, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. James can understand why. Eighteen or nineteen men, trapped in a basement, no fresh air and all packed around the table? The room is really warming up. "How do you propose we do all that?"

Steve looks up at him, his blue eyes hard. "We'll have help from two other groups. We'll be just less than sixty if no one deserts." 

There's a soft murmur from the assembled men, and James can feel Steve flinch like he's worried people really will desert - that they'll drop out, and the whole thing will be a shambles.

James can't imagine what it must be like, to try and orchestrate a revolution. He had remembered most of it last night; there were nearly two hundred groups all over Paris, two hundred groups of less than twenty men, typically led by one. That made nearly two hundred people leading a revolution, which must make things easier, but - well, James wouldn't like to be the one in charge.

He grasps Steve's shoulder gently, squeezing, just a little. He looks around at the men in the room as Steve lifts his head to look at him. "No one's going to desert their fellow men." He says. The men fall silent. "We all want the same thing. We all know how it's going to happen. Anyone who wants to leave should do so now."

There's silence, still, but no one leaves. They all look from James to Steve, and back again. When James finally looks down at Steve, he's looking up at Bucky with wonder. 

He quickly regains his composure, though. "Like he says. Anyone who wants to leave should do so. Stop attending the meetings. If you don't wish to help, don't pretend otherwise."

And then he drops his gaze to the map, outlining where their barricade will be.

At the end of the meeting, Steve grabs James by the wrist, pulling him to one side. James thinks, for some reason, that he's about to be reprimanded, but Steve gives him a gentle smile that soothes all of his worries. "Thank you for speaking up." He says. "Sometimes I think I'm talking to the wall."

James gives a soft chuckle, his head bowed as he looks at Steve. "It's not a problem. This is - it's big. People need to understand that, and move on if they don't."

"Exactly." Steve sighs, deflating just a little like a weight has been taken off his shoulders. He looks at James for a long moment, and for a second, James wonders if maybe - maybe, he's remembering. If maybe Steve knows-- "I'll see you tomorrow, I assume? James, isn't it?"

James' hopes die right there and then. He tries not to look too hurt, though his chest begins to ache, his heart feeling heavy within it. "Yes. And of course, I'll be here." He says, and he smiles, heading up the cellar stairs to reunite with Dernier and Gabe.

~*~

At night, James thinks of the life he left behind.

He wonders where his sisters are, where his mother is. Although really, that last one isn't a question. It's been nearly sixty years, and his mother was in her late forties, already past her prime. She'll be dead, buried in some cemetery in England, somewhere.

The thought brings tears to his eyes. His sisters might be dead too; eighty seems like a grand old age, especially if the girls were left with nothing after James had died. He hopes they're still out there, sitting in some rocking chair, surrounded by children, and grandchildren. He can dream.

He thinks about the life he has now, too. He has a mother in this life - she was the woman he saw in the gray dress, that night when he had returned to himself, or when he remembered that old life - whichever. He still wasn't too sure. She's still out there, in the countryside. He loves her. She's his mother, but Winifred was too - it's confusing, but he can't deny that he feels the same amount of love for each of them.

He thinks of Connie. He wonders what happened to her. Maybe she was taken to the gallows, for killing two men. Maybe she was spirited away by her mother, never to be seen again. He doesn't know, but he's quite surprised to find that he does, in fact, care.

He thinks of Steve, too. Steve, who hasn't changed one bit. He's still so determined looking, so well spoken. He's getting to see a side of Steve that he would never have seen in that old life, where Steve was a different class, a member of staff. This new life does seem to have its blessing.

~*~

Steve requests that James stands by his side as they watch the funeral procession go by. James doesn't mind; in fact, he's both honored and thrilled that Steve would think of him in such a way. He stands in silence, watching the soldiers and the horses pass them by until there's a nod. That's all it takes. A nod, and then a shout, and then people rush forward, faster than James can even comprehend. For a second, Steve holds him back, because James is amazed to find that he wants to go. He wants to storm the black carriage carrying Lamarque's coffin, he wants to join in. There are shouts and hollers and soldiers trying to pull men from the black cab, but it doesn't work.

When Steve rushes forward, so does James.

Ten men had attended today, ten had stayed at what was to become the site of the barricade. When they reach the Bastille there must be a thousand men, more than that, thousands gathered around. Words are exchanged, shouted about Lamarque, the work he had done for the poor and the support he had given to the foreign refugees, who have joined them in their quest this afternoon. 

The rest happens quickly. A red flag rises through the crowds, and James sees a flash of words upon it - he doesn't have a chance to read them before there's a gunshot, and then a handful more, and Steve is pulling him, his hand in James', pulling him in the direction of the fleeing rebels, back to base.

"The flag?" He shouts above the noise. All of this seems like an overreaction, to a flag.

Steve turns his head to look at James, a wild kind of grin on his face. "La Liberté ou la Mort." He says, and James understands. That must have been what the flag had said, those words James had never got a chance to see. "Come on!"

Their footsteps and shouts echoing through the narrow streets act as a signal for the men in the buildings above them. Wardrobes and tables and all kinds of things are thrown down onto the ground, the furniture smashing and splintering as it hits the cobbles. It makes it easier to drag around, the help from the other groups making it even easier. Before his eyes, a barricade is erected, blocking off the street from the outside. 

When a gun is pressed into James' hand, though, he freezes. He stiffens, looking at the barrel of the thing. It's entirely different to the gun Connie had used to shoot him and Steve, but the thought of pointing it at someone else fills him with dread.

Steve is the one to find him.

"Don't turn on me now, James." He says. He grips James' arms, holds his gaze. "I need you. I need you here, we can win this." he hisses, his soft voice somehow rising above the rabble. "But I need you."

"I - I know." He says. He swallows thickly, looking at Steve. There's a shout and a spattering of gunshots. Whether or not any of the bullets penetrate the barricade James doesn't know, but he throws himself over Steve regardless, covering his body with his own.

If he has to shoot to protect Steve, by god, he will. If he has to throw himself over the barricade, he'll do that too. 

Steve looks up at him when James finally releases him, and blinks owlishly, his eyes bright. "Thank you." He murmurs.

James swallows thickly, and he nods. "Let's get to work."

~*~

Night falls and passes in more bursts of fighting, shouts from the other side for the men to give up their arms, to surrender. Of course, they don't. Steve and the others assure the men that they will have the support of the Parisian people. They have nothing to fear.

Through the night, more and more men begin to fall. Some run from the barricade, retreating into the streets behind, deciding desertion is a better fate than death. Some get cocky, try to climb the barricade to wave flags or pronounce their agenda, and fall lifeless over the other side, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air

By the time the sun begins to rise, there are only about thirty of them left.

Gabe had died, and Dernier had run. James had wept over Gabe's body, cursed Dernier as he left. He had thought about leaving, too, but Steve's presence keeps him where he is, roots him to the spot. They fight through the day, the sun rising in the sky. They're all tired, all wishing for it to end, but none of them willing to surrender.

"We can't give up." Steve persists.

James looks at him, weary. He wants to tell him to be quiet, but he can't. He respects him for his perseverance, loves him too much to tell him to stop.

The two of them are in the cellar, grabbing just a little food before they had back out. James looks at him, for a long moment. "We could just run, Steve. Even to a bigger barricade, we could just - we could make it, together."

Steve looks at him, and his eyes widen, just a little. "We could have a life together." He says softly.

A stone sinks in James' stomach. Hadn't he said those same words to Steve, once upon a time?

"We could have a life together." He says again. "James - _Bucky_." He says, and he smiles. He rocks up onto his tiptoes, their meagre lunch forgotten as Steve kisses him, hand soft on the back of his neck. James feels like he wants to cry, worries that he actually might. He holds Steve tight, breath hitching in his throat.

"Stevie," He whispers, holding him. "Stevie, I--"

"We have to go," Steve says, pulling out of the embrace, looking up at James with wide eyes. James nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

"We can - we can go back, into the city center, there'll be shelter somewhere--" 

"No." Steve shakes his head, cutting James short. "No, we have to go back out, to the barricade. We can have a life together, James, but I want it to be worth living."

He launches himself up the stairs, past James, and James can only gape as he goes. He grabs up the tricolor flag, clambering up the half-dismantled barricade.

"Steve!" James calls, breathless. He knows where this is going, he knows what's going to happen. "Steve, please! Steve--"

Steve has time only to plant the flag in the barricade and raise the rifle before he's shot down, body rocking with the force of the bullet that hits him. He falls back, lifeless. The men around him barely flinch.

It's James who rushes forward, tears in his eyes, streaming down his face. James who tries to pull Steve from the barricade, though Steve's eyes are already lifeless. He holds him to his chest as he sits up, slowly, head and shoulders rising over the top of the barricade.

Everything goes black. James lets go of Steve as he too falls to the ground, a flash of white filling the void.


	4. 1911

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's fine," Steve says, and he smiles a little. He's Irish. His words are lilted and melodious, sweet in Bucky's ears. "It's my fault. I shouldn't be up here."
> 
> "No, you shouldn't be," Bucky says, grinning a little, just a little, as he moves closer. Steve doesn't remember, that much is clear. Steve doesn't remember him and it stings but he's there. He's there, right in front of him, and Bucky can't stop smiling. Steve's ears turn red as he blushes, and it only makes Bucky smile more. "But it's alright; I shouldn't be either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that I feel like the end of this could be pretty heavy and/or distressing, depending on your triggers. I'm sure you all know how the Titanic ended, so I don't think I need to explain.
> 
> I apologise for any further historical inaccuracies; I haven't studied the titanic in about 7 years, and I've never even seen the movie, so I had to just try my best to do some research on this one. Hope you all enjoy!

He wakes to a flash of white light and the sound of gulls, the air around him salty and thick. He sits up, blinking away memories of a life he knows he's lived, cobbled streets and closely packed houses, a father with soot on his brow and a mother dressed in a school matron's uniform. He clutches his head as the memories pass, and then he looks at his surroundings.

Another new room, another new place. He looks at the view outside of his window, and he can see the sea. He doesn't know where he is, for just a moment, but then he recalls it. Southampton. He's back in England 

And good, too, because that translation thing had really freaked him out, for a while there. 

He wonders if he still knows French, and so he picks up a piece of paper sitting on the edge of the desk by his bed, tries to translate it. And it works, too. Apparently, he does still know French.

He goes to put the leaflet down, but then it catches his attention again. It's an advertisement for a ship, a new ocean liner, sailing from Southampton to New York, every Wednesday at noon. He wonders why he has it sitting on his bedside table.

And then he sees the uniform hanging on the back of his door and the clock on the desk that reads 8 am, and he's up out of bed like a shot.

He doesn't have time to sit and remember things, he doesn't have time to ask questions, because two things that he _has_  remembered are that: one, he's got a job aboard said ocean liner, which is due to leave at noon, and two, he's about to be late.

On the way down to the docks, he meets up with a man who he has to take a second to remember. Clint Barton, his mind so handily supplies, a quite recent friend and the one who had dragged him to the sign up a week or so before. Clint flashes him a grin, the two of them sporting the same uniform, jackets slung over their shoulders.

"And here I thought _I_  was the only one not gonna make it." Clint grins. American. Makes sense, he supposes. "I thought you'd be on time, Bucky. Had higher expectations."

Bucky. So he's Bucky in this life - not Jaques, not James, _Bucky_. It feels wrong to hear it from someone else's lips, someone other than Steve's.

Steve. Bucky remembers him, hair like spun gold and eyes as blue as the ocean. And then he remembers red, so much red, Steve's face pale and gaunt and those eyes, staring--

It takes him a moment to respond. "Nearly overslept." Is his response, and evidently not a very good one, judging by the look Clint gives him.

"You okay, Bucky?" He asks, looking him up and down. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, no--" He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair - it's cut short now, not as long as it usually is, and for a second, he mourns the loss of it. He liked his hair long. He supposes it's in keeping with the current fashion. "I just didn't have enough time to wake up, that's all."

"Well, sea air should do you well there," Clint says, and he grins, a sign that it's all forgotten. He believes him, at least enough to let it go.

~*~

It doesn't take them too long to get to the docks, and to the ship that awaits them - The Titanic, the famously unsinkable ship, and Bucky's free pass to America.

That's another thing he remembers - why on earth he wants to cross the Atlantic to what he remembers formerly as being a wasteland, or near enough. When Bucky was James and the world was a hundred years or so younger, America had been a handful of colonies with a lot of promise. Now, he remembers, America is a thriving nation. It holds as many opportunities as it used to, if not more - far more than still exist at home in England.

And earning a wage whilst getting his transport to New York? He's lucky, he knows that. The work will be hard and the hours long, but - well, he's not going to argue. Not if he gets what he wants.

They shoulder their bags, careful not to rumple their suit jackets as they board the gangway. A man at the bottom stands with a piece of paper, and he ticks names off a list as he goes along it. The queue has mostly gone down - he and Clint are late, after all. Everyone else, for the most part, is already on board.

"Barton, Barnes." Officer Coulson says, looking the two of them up and down. "We thought we were going to have to leave without you. Your quarters are on the Middle Deck - someone else will direct you when you get close. Now off you go, or the Chef might just throw you overboard."

"We're not even aboard yet, how's he gonna do that?" Clint whispers to Bucky, who has to stifle his laugh, turning it into a cough as he walks upward, into the ship.

~*~

The restaurant is open just as soon as all of them are ready. Bucky and Clint are in a room with a handful of other waiters, but he doesn't care. He doesn't plan on spending too much time in his room. He'll work whatever shift he's required, and sit out on the deck, under the stars, until he can't keep his eyes open any longer. It sounds like a pretty good deal to him.

The ship leaves at noon, though he doesn't get to see their departure with his own eyes. He catches whatever little glimpse that he can from the windows around the restaurant, turning on his best smile as the first class passengers begin to filter in.

It's so different to the life he just lived - he can't really remember it, but he knows that. When he thinks back on that life there's a thrill to it, a rush, and he - well, he wishes that he could remember, at least, the part of that life that he and Steve got to live together.

Yet he remembers the one before perfectly. A rush of clarity; Steve and the horses and the house that had felt like a prison, the woman who had raised a gun out of spite. He remembers that like it was yesterday, or like a story that he had only just finished reading, images fresh in his mind.

He all but falls into bed after that first day, and manages to get a lie in the day after; by the time he wakes and dresses they've already docked in Ireland and moved on again. They're heading for New York, full steam ahead.

At the end of his shift, he decides he wants fresh air. It's nearing midnight by the time he finally gets to the deck, and he has a feeling that it'll be empty. He's right; all of the first class ladies and gentlemen, whether from Southampton or the more recent additions from France and Ireland, have all tucked themselves and their jewels up in bed for the night. There's only one other person out on the deck, leaning against the railing, looking out at the night sky.

Bucky's first thought is that he must be young; he doesn't look particularly tall, and he doesn't seem to be wearing the clothes of a first class passenger. Bucky leans against the railing, reaching for the cigarettes he had kept tucked in the inside pocket of his work jacket. He lights one of them, bringing it to his lips and breathing out slowly into the night air.

He begins to think of his the last life he lived, wondering why. Why is he doing this, over and over? Why is he here, why is he - just _why_. There doesn't seem to be any pattern to it. The first time he lived it was the 18th century, and now he finds himself in the 20th. He can't seem to remember the exact date of the last time - 1830? Around then. It's been eighty years, or there about, so why has the universe chosen to bring him back now?

And where's Steve? It seems that they're in this thing together, even if Steve doesn't remember it at first. Because that was what had happened last time, right? He has a feeling about that. Steve didn't remember him, and after he did, well - the two of them didn't last particularly long, did they? 

Right, that's right. He knows that that's right. He doesn't know how they died, not really, he just remembers that flash, that gunshot, another one, different to the first. He wishes he could remember. He wishes--

His thoughts are interrupted by coughing coming from that other person further along the deck. The smoke from his cigarette must have drifted his way, and so Bucky turns, an apology on his lips as he throws the cigarette into the ocean below them. 

"Sorry, sir, I--"

The stranger turns to look at him, and Bucky's breath catches in his throat. It's Steve. Steve, dressed in clothes that are too big and just a little beaten up; they were probably second hand even before they were given to him, and yet.

He's the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever seen, and he sways on his feet for just a moment. 

"It's fine," Steve says, and he smiles a little. He's Irish. His words are lilted and melodious, sweet in Bucky's ears. "It's my fault. I shouldn't be up here."

Bucky looks around; they're the only two up here, and neither of them are supposed to be. This part of the deck is reserved for First Class, and Bucky's going to take a wild stab in the dark and say that Steve _isn't_  first class. 

"No, you shouldn't be," Bucky says, grinning a little, just a little, as he moves closer. Steve doesn't remember, that much is clear. Steve doesn't remember him and it stings but he's there. He's there, right in front of him, and Bucky can't stop smiling. Steve's ears turn red as he blushes, and it only makes Bucky smile more. "But it's alright; I shouldn't be either."

Steve looks at him for a moment, takes him in. Bucky stands close, closer than he ought to, but it's midnight and they're alone. And Steve doesn't seem to mind. He looks at Bucky curiously, but he doesn't move away.

"You aren't?" He asks, to which Bucky shakes his head.

"Crew." He says, gesturing to his uniform.

"Steerage," Steve says, gesturing to his clothes in a way that mirrors Bucky's own move just a moment before. It makes him laugh, which has Steve laughing in turn.

"I just wanted to enjoy it," Bucky says, looking out over the water. "I've lived by the sea all my life, but I've never had the opportunity to enjoy it."

He looks to Steve, who smiles a little. "I'd never even seen the sea, until today." He says, looking out over the railing to the darkened ocean that surrounds them. "Do I sound stupid if I say it's bigger than I imagined?"

Bucky laughs again and shakes his head. "No, I don't think you do." He murmurs. 

They stand next to each other in silence for a while, listening to the waves and the hum of the ship. After a little while, Steve looks at his watch, an old, battered looking pocket watch that he pulls from his waistcoat. "I should get going. It's late." he murmurs.

"Which deck are you on?" Bucky asks, head tilting.

"Middle," Steve says. It earns a grin from Bucky, who nods. 

"Me too." He smiles. "Mind if I walk back with you?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not at all." He smiles softly. "If you tell me your name."

"Bucky Barnes." He supplies. He looks at Steve curiously, wondering if it will invoke any kind of memory. It doesn't. Steve just smiles and holds out a hand for Bucky to shake. "Steve Rogers." He supplies.

"Nice to meet you, Steve," Bucky says, and he smiles softly. He means it. He means it sincerely. He doesn't care if he lives a thousand lives - meeting Steve is the best part of them all, and it always will be. 

~*~

They meet again the next night. 

This time Bucky changes before he heads out to the deck; Coulson reprimanded him the night before for smelling like cigarette smoke, and he _needs_  one after the hectic shifts that he works, long hours spent on his feet. When he meets Steve again, he's sitting against the railing, his back to the ocean and a book open in his lap. It takes a moment for Bucky to realize it's empty - he's sketching, and for a second, Bucky stops to watch him. He likes that that's a universal constant. He doesn't remember if Steve sketched last time around, but - well, he's sure he must have. 

After a moment, Steve looks up. "Mr. Barnes." He smiles. For a second, that accent takes Bucky by surprise, but not for long. He remembers - this Steve is Irish. And that's fine. It's kind of nice, actually. "You going to join me?"

Bucky grins, taking a seat beside Steve. He feels oddly uneasy with the sea at his back, but he puts it aside. "Can I see what you're working on?"

Steve offers the sketch book up to him, and Bucky peers down at it. It's a sketch of the open deck and the night sky beyond it, and it looks almost like a photograph. Bucky has no idea how he does it.

"You're very talented."

Steve does that thing where he blushes, his ears turning pink first, followed by his cheekbones. He looks at Bucky like that's the best compliment he could've been given. "Thank you."

For a second, they look at each other, their gazes locked. Bucky is falling into the eyes, bluer than the sea or the sky or anything he's ever seen - those are eyes he would never forget, that he never will. He promises himself that right now.

Steve is the one to look away first, that blush creeping down his neck. "Tell me about the restaurant, then. I bet it's fancier than anything they've given us."

Bucky laughs softly. "You're not wrong there." He smiles and begins to regale Steve with tales of his work, of snooty clients and women in fancy dresses. Steve draws the whole thing, and Bucky marvels at how close to reality it is. He can't help but lean closer and smile when Steve doesn't move away.

He walks Steve back to his cabin, and they agree to meet once again the night after. Bucky goes to bed with a smile on his face, rolling over to face the wall.

~*~

He doesn't get a chance to go up on deck the next night. Steve collars him on his way back from the restaurant, one broad hand curling around Bucky's arm. 

"We're having a party." He grins, bright eyes dancing. "Will you come? It's probably not going to last much longer--"

"Then we better get moving." Bucky grins, abandoning his trip to his room in favor of following Steve down the hall to the third class open space.

And Steve wasn't joking; they're having a party down there, the few tables pushed against the walls, a couple of men in the corner playing a variety of instruments that shouldn't work together but actually really do. There's a swarm of people in the middle of the room dancing and laughing, chatter filling the space. 

They shouldn't dance together - Bucky knows that. The last thing he wants is to get Steve in trouble, put on some kind of list or banged up in jail as soon as they reach New York. 

But Steve is already grabbing his hands and pulling him closer, the two of them moving with the beat and the melody. No one is looking their way; no one cares what they're doing. And so Bucky grins, and he dances, and he doesn't stop until Steve drags him away.

"Sorry," he says, a little breathless, smile wide and eyes sparkling. "You can go back and join in the fun if you want--"

"No." Bucky shakes his head, looking down at Steve. He's panting a little too, grateful that the air is so much cooler away from all those bodies, packed in and moving fast. "I don't need to be at the party to be having fun. I always seem to be having fun, when I'm with you."

Steve looks at him curiously, and Bucky falters. That's probably an odd thing to say to someone you've known for two days, isn't it? Yes - yes, it must be, and Steve hasn't said anything, even though it's been quite a while now. 

Bucky's made it too strange, he's thrown it off course, and he curses himself. Hates himself for it. Steve looks up and down the corridor, and Bucky thinks he must be wondering which way to _run_ \--

And then Steve's lips meet his, and his mind goes utterly blank.

The kiss is, in actual fact, rather chaste. Steve has one hand fisted in Bucky's shirt, pink lips sealed shut as they join with Bucky's. He pulls back after a second, and Bucky can see the panic in his eyes. He won't let Steve panic, and so he grins, bowing his head. "Do that again." He breathes.

Steve is only too happy to comply.

~*~

The next morning the sea is rough, and for the first time since stepping on board, Bucky can really feel the ocean beneath his feet. Clint looks like he wants to vomit as he steps out for his shift, and Bucky wishes he could do something to make him feel better.

He hopes Steve is okay. He wonders what Steve does with himself during the day, what he gets up to. He thinks about going to find him, but they've already arranged to meet again up on deck tomorrow, so he contents himself to working and waiting, and thinking of Steve.

~*~

Bucky sneaks up on him, wrapping his arms around Steve from behind. Once again he's sure that there's no one up there, he's sure that there's no one there to see him. "Got you." Bucky grins his back to the ship and gazes out to sea as he grazes Steve's cheeks with his lips.

"I missed you. Isn't that stupid?" Steve asks, looking up at Bucky. "I saw you a day ago, but I missed you."

"I missed you too." Bucky grins. He leans in to kiss him, but Steve pauses, a hand pressed to Bucky's shirt. Bucky falters, wondering why. Why had Steve stopped him?

But then he looks at him, meets his gaze, and he knows. He knows. Steve has remembered, and he's looking at Bucky with some kind of fondness and some kind of fear, that hand on his chest moving to Bucky's neck, to keep him close. 

"Do you remember?" Bucky murmurs, their foreheads pressed together, tips of their noses touching.

Steve nods, just a little, enough for Bucky to feel it. "I remember."

Bucky wants to cry and cheer and kiss him. He wants to hold Steve, he wants to--

"Bucky - Bucky, what's that?"

Steve has turned away, looking over towards the front of the ship, and for a second, Bucky can't answer him. He can't see anything through the thick night air, the darkness enveloping everything but the two of them.

And then he makes it out; the hulking great ice berg, heading straight for them. The two of them watch in stunned silence, the ice drawing closer, and closer.

"It's alright," Bucky says. "We're turning. We won't hit it."

Steve doesn't respond. The two of them watch, moving away from the railing as the ice berg draws closer and closer--

A shudder runs through the ship, vibrating them both. Steve looks up at Bucky, his face pale in the moonlight. "I don't think it's going to be alright."

Bucky wraps an arm around Steve's shoulders, pulling him close. Not again, he won't do it again. He won't lose him, not again--

"We have to do something."

~*~

Bucky doesn't know what he's trying to do. 

"My uniform, my uniform, if you put it on--" He rambles. They're back in his room, which empties now that the world seems to be coming to an end, men helping the women and the children up to the deck so that they can, hopefully, be saved. 

"Your uniform won't fit me, Bucky." Steve murmurs, his voice soft. "It won't fit, and they'll know - they'll know it's a uniform. We just have to - we just have to go and wait our turn. We just have to hope."

Bucky turns around and looks at him. He looks at him for a long moment, and then marches over to him, kissing him long and hard, hands framing Steve's face. "I won't let you die, not again. Not again."

"If I have to die, I don't mind doing it with you." Steve murmurs. 

Bucky's chest hitches and he hugs Steve close to him. He can already see it in those sky-blue eyes. Steve has given up. Steve has assessed the situation and has accepted death, and Bucky - he can't do it. He's lost Steve twice before. He can't do it again.

"Come on," Steve says in that soft voice, kissing Bucky gently. "Come on, we have to go. We have to."

Bucky gives a little nod. He wipes his eyes with the heel of his palm, and takes his jacket off, wrapping it around Steve. "It's cold out there." He murmurs. Steve doesn't argue, strangely enough.

~*~

 

The ship is tilting.

It's tilting and groaning and Bucky can think of only one thing - getting to higher ground. They have to get to higher ground before it's too late. The lifeboats are gone, it's too late for that now, and it's too late to just jump. Maybe if they can hang on, if they can make it, another ship will come to rescue them--

Bucky forces Steve up against one of the railings, makes sure he has a good hold on it. The ship tilts one way, rising out of the water. The air around them is bitingly cold, stinging his lungs as he breathes it in. People around them lose their grip, they fall. Bucky refuses to fall, he refuses to let Steve fall either. He kisses him, and he doesn't care who sees. Steve kisses him back, soft and reserved, and it hurts Bucky just a little to see him so resigned to his fate.

The ship begins to fall again, back into the water. Bucky closes his eyes, focuses on Steve, pressed against his side. Steve clings to the railing, his fingers turning blue. Bucky wishes he could do something, he wishes he wasn't so powerless--

The ship has completely split in half, and now their half is sinking, falling, and it's going so _slowly_. Steve looks up at him, blinking wide blue eyes. "I love you." He murmurs.

Bucky looks at him, his throat feeling tight. "I love you too."

~*~

The water is cold when they finally meet it, so cold that it forces the air from Bucky's lungs. He gasps but only takes in more icy water. He looks at Steve once more, just once, before his eyes drift shut. The blackness envelops him, and he feels warm once more.


	5. 1942

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't remember. He kisses Bucky and they share a bed but he doesn't remember. He remembers a life that they've already had together, one that Bucky remembers too - they were the two boys running over the cobbles, bloody noses and skinned knees. They've had that life together. As far as either one of them is concerned, it should continue on in that way, forever.
> 
> Steve might not remember, but Bucky can damn well live with it, for a life together.

A flash of white light and then a flurry of colour. He's done this three times now, so he knows to just sit and wait for it all to be over, perched on the edge of the bed, sheets pulled away with him. A warm summer night at the fair, a picture show, two little boys running down a cobbled street. Bucky rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, and sighs gently. He's about to stand, go get himself a drink of water, when the silence of the apartment is interrupted.

“Jeez, Buck, what are you doin'? I'm freezin' over here.”

American, just like him - he's American, he knows that. That's something new. He's never been American before.

But that is only a momentary distraction, his mind stalling before it lets that voice, deep and raspy with sleep, trickle into his system.

Steve.

Bucky turns to see Steve, his hair mussed and his eyes only half open, obviously awoken from his slumber when Bucky had… Come back to himself? He'd have to figure out a name for that. But, besides the point - he was sitting next to Steve. Sharing a bed with Steve. His Steve, in nothing but a vest and a pair of underpants, his Stevie, looking at home like he knows exactly who he is.

“I-- um--”

He doesn't know what to say. He looks at Steve for a long, long moment, grey eyes blown wide, during which time Steve flops back onto the bed, stealing the covers for his own.

“Go back to sleep, Buck. It ain't even seven yet.”

Bucky lies back down beside him, Steve’s breath ghosting over his arm, but he sure as hell doesn't sleep.

~*~

Steve can't remember, because whenever Steve remembers, that's when things go wrong. Bucky can't really remember the last time (all he can think of is being cold, very cold, and frightened out of his damn mind), but he remembers the time before that, half lit Parisian streets, cobblestones bathed in blood. Steve had remembered, and kissed him, and ran up those stairs to his doom.

So no, he can't remember, because if he remembered then Bucky would have remembered a lot sooner (his own version of remembering, wherein he remembers the life he's now living), and they'd be dead. Because it always ends in them being dead.

Even if they come back, in the end.

~*~

They have oatmeal for breakfast, a little too thick and bland as hell, but neither of them complain. They don't speak, but the silence feels companionable, like this is the norm. When Steve has his back turned, Bucky does a quick sweep of the apartment.

Not that it takes him very long - their bed is pushed up against one wall, a tattered looking couch and rug near a fireplace on the other side of the room, by the door. The kitchenette is pressed to one side, a small table in front of it with three chairs sat around. It looks old. Very old. the whole place is kind of drafty, but it feels so much like home that Bucky can only smile as he appraises it.

At eight, Steve puts his bowl in the sink, and kisses Bucky softly. “I'll see you later - enjoy your day off.” He grins, leaving Bucky to marvel at him as he goes.

~*~

Steve doesn't remember. He kisses Bucky and they share a bed but he doesn't remember. He remembers a life that they've already had together, one that Bucky remembers too - they were the two boys running over the cobbles, bloody noses and skinned knees. They've had that life together. As far as either one of them is concerned, it should continue on in that way, forever.

Steve might not remember, but Bucky can damn well live with it, for a life together.

~*~

One day, Steve gets into a fight. Bucky only happens to know about it because he's walking home from work and sees him propped up against a wall, a steady stream of blood falling from his eyebrow, his lip split and knuckles red. Steve hasn't seen him, so he walks down the alley, and grabs him by the collar.

“Come on, dumbass.” He huffs. “Let's get you home and cleaned up.”

Steve doesn't argue with that, just letting Bucky tug him along. No one on the street is surprised to see the two of them like this; memory serves that they do this a lot, the two of them.

Back at the apartment, Bucky pulls the curtains shut and sits Steve at that little kitchen table, fetching some water and a rag so he can clean him up. He uses two fingers to tip Steve's head back, so he can check him over in the dim light from the single bulb hanging in the kitchen area. He sighs and shakes his head, ignoring the venom in Steve's gaze.

"You're killin' me, punk."

 _Punk_ is a name that he calls him. _Punk_ is their thing - ' _Punk_ ', ' _Jerk_ ', because they can't call each other sweetheart, not in public. Oh, Bucky wishes he could, now more than ever. Three times he's imagined having a life with Steve and now he does, and sometimes it's difficult not to shout it from the rooftops. He loves Steve and Steve loves him and god, it's amazing.

But they can't do that. It would be a one way ticket to prison, to the end of their comfortable existence with one another. So they stick to _punk_ , and _jerk_ , and they only hold hands in the confines of the apartment.

It softens Steve, who huffs a sigh, his breath ghosting over Bucky's hand. He gets that a lot, these days. He can feel the rise and fall of Steve's chest, the gentle sighs he gives every so often. It thrills Bucky every time.

"I had 'im on the ropes."

Bucky holds back a growl. "Sure you did." He mutters. He throws the rag out, when he's done. He couldn't get the blood out even if he tried.

~*~

Steve has asthma. Steve has had asthma since they were kids, and Bucky has never really heard of it before - he even tries to think about his previous lives, but no - but he remembers Sarah Rogers sitting him down at her kitchen table when he was ten, and telling him everything he needed to know. Sarah was a kind woman, with soft blonde hair and even softer blue eyes, a second mother to him. He listened, and he never forgot what she told him.

So when Steve starts wheezing and coughing he knows what to do. He helps him to the wall, makes him sit upright against it. His voice is calm, but his heart beats hard and fast.

"Nice and deep, Stevie, hey--" He takes Steve's hands and squeezes them tight. "Like me." He demonstrates, taking slow, deep breaths. When he thinks that Steve has a handle on that, he runs to the stove, boils water as quickly as he's able and makes him a cup of coffee. He crouches down in front of Steve, giving him the cup. His hands shake as he takes a sip, and Bucky watches with a gentle frown.

When it's over, Steve leans forward, resting his head against Bucky's shoulder. "Looks like I'm killin' the both of us."

Bucky brings one hand up to cradle the back of Steve's head, fingers carding through his hair. "Don't talk like that." He murmurs. "You're gonna be fine. Gonna live to the ripe old age of 90, you and me."

"As long as we get to do it together." Steve says, his voice small and quiet. They have to be careful with talk like this, even if they are at home, enclosed in their own four walls. Those walls are thin, and whilst their neighbours are nice, it's not a risk that either of them want to take.

Bucky smiles softly, kissing Steve's temple. "I'm not goin' anywhere."

~*~

He gets the letter a few days after that. Steve is at work, but Bucky doesn't start a few more hours and -- and then there's the letter.

He does, in fact, remember signing himself up for the war in Europe. Thankfully he had missed the first one by just a couple of years - he had been born again right at the end of it, so maybe dying in those icy waters _did_ have a silver lining - but he knew all about it. Just like he knows all about this one, about the German madman trying to take over the world and the allies trying to push him back.

He remembers signing up because it was that or get called up and at least this way, he had a choice. Steve, thick as two short planks and eager as hell, had gone down to the conscription office the day the US joined the war, but of course they had turned him down. Steve's wonky spine and dodgy lungs and weak heart had seen him turned away, but Bucky - well. Bucky is tall and he's toned and he knows how to follow orders. He's the perfect soldier - probably why he's a sergeant just from joining up, no real training or nothing.

But still, the letter surprises him. He had joined up before remembering, being reborn, whatever the hell it was, and this - it's almost out of the blue.

He's still looking at the letter when Steve comes in the front door later that night. Bucky had missed worked - his boss had understood, told him to have a nice last night at home.

"Hey," Steve says, smiling. His job at the local paper shop is pretty easy and pays pretty well, for the kind of work he does. He tends to come in smiling. Bucky, though - Bucky can't even look at him. "What's up? What's that?"

Steve drapes himself over the back of Bucky's chair, and Bucky finally looks up at him, blinking a few times. "I, uh - I'm shipping out tomorrow. England. Gotta be there first thing."

Steve blinks, and then he straightens up. He clears his throat, but he won't look at Bucky. "That's - well. We knew it was gonna happen, right?"

Bucky nod. "Guess so." he murmurs.

"Tomorrow, though." Steve murmurs. "That's--"

"I know."

The apartment is silent, save for the creaking of the floorboards upstairs and the sounds of the street drifting up from the window. After a long moment, in which the two of them just look at each other, Steve manages a smile. It looks wrong, somehow wonky or askew, but it's a smile nonetheless. "Guess we better give you a good send off, huh?"

Bucky smiles, but it's half hearted. "Yeah."

"I'll make dinner." Steve murmurs. "Or we can go out. We'll go to Coney Island. Yeah. Get dressed--"

Steve tries to make it seem like it's a good thing. Or, at least, like it isn't such a bad thing that Bucky may be marching to his death. Bucky does his best to keep his chin up, for Steve. He gets changed, lets Steve drag them both to Coney Island. They eat too much candy and drink a little bit too much and when they stagger home to their beds, hands hot and kisses tasting like sugar and beer, Bucky wishes he didn't have to go.

~*~

He meets some good people, whilst training in England. He's closer to the fighting here, but far enough that it feels kind of like it's never going to happen. They have training and after that they have to wait to be called over to France, so hey, he has time, right?

He writes to Steve every day. He tells his friends he's writing to a girl, his girlfriend. He tells them she's got pretty blue eyes and hair like gold and she's the best thing that ever happened to him. He doesn't tell Steve that, in his letters, but he bets that if he did, Steve would find it funny.

Six weeks pass, and he writes as often as he can. Basic training ends, and then he goes into infantry training; he's got a keen eye and good reflexes and everyone he talks to reckons he'll be a damn good sniper. On bad nights he listens to the German planes fly over head, helps evacuate women and children and elderly couples to shelters. On good nights he sits in the local pub and sings and drinks and wishes for Steve.

He sees Steve again sooner than he thought he would. He's helping to evacuate people to the shelters when he sees a familiar crop of blonde hair and blue eyes, and his heart stops. For a second, he thinks he's imagining it. Sirens blare overhead, whistles blowing as wardens try to rush the civilians to safety. Bucky isn't doing his job too well, too busy looking at Steve.

"Stevie?"

"Buck." Steve murmurs, looking at him in a way Bucky doesn't recognise. His eyes are bright and dark all at once, excited and nervous and scared. Bucky looks around, and pulls Steve into a nearby house, empty now that it's occupants are down in the local shelter.

"What the hell are you doing here, Stevie?" He says, his voice quick and panicked. Steve is in a war zone, he's here, when he could be safe, at home. "How did you even get here? What the hell were you thinking?"

"It doesn't - none of that matters, Bucky." He murmurs softly. "None of it matters, because I remembered. I remember, present tense. I remember all of it."

Bucky feels like he can't catch his breath, like he's been winded. Steve remembers, he remembers now, of all moments.

Steve remembers now. In the middle of what some would consider an active war zone. Steve remembers, and there are Nazi planes flying overhead, and when Steve remembers--

"We can talk about this later." Bucky says. He feels like his heart has stopped beating and has turned to stone. He feels like his soul has left his body. Steve remembers, and he's so happy that he does, but not now. Not _now_. "We have to get to a shelter."

"Bucky, I can't - It can't wait." Steve won't move, he won't be budged. Bucky looks desperately to the door, tears beginning to sting his eyes. "I remember."

"That's real nice, Stevie, and I wanna talk about it," Bucky says, pushing Steve's shoulder, trying to edge him towards the door. "But we have to move--"

"I love you, Bucky." Steve's voice is soft, muted by the whistling up above them, the only warning they get before the bomb hits. The impact forces Bucky away from Steve, shoves him up against something solid, and the blackness hits him, dragging him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate this chapter was a tiny little thing, but that's because I have another chapter planned for after this! Originally I was just going to write a chapter for each life, but after leaving it on such a dramatic cliffhanger the first time around (thanks to my beta reader for that!) I can't help but revisit their lives in 2017. So, stay tuned!
> 
> And now that the historical part of this is over, I'd like to apologise for all the inaccuracies. I love history so much, but I know my research is spotty at best!


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky carries Steve out of their burning building, setting him down on the grass.
> 
> "Steve, Stevie, not again, not now, please, God--"
> 
> Steve is still, perfectly so, and all the air rushes out of Bucky's lungs in a sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this was so long coming! I have had a ridiculously busy few weeks, but thankfully this is a bit of a short one to tie up some loose ends, so I've been able to get it out pretty quickly!
> 
> Beta'd by myself, so any mistakes are entirely my own.

Bucky carries Steve out of their burning building, setting him down on the grass.

"Steve, Stevie, not again, not now, please, God--"

He brushes the hair from Steve's face, the bangs that he keeps talking about getting cut but never does because he knows that Bucky thinks they're cute, and he looks for signs of life.

Steve is still, perfectly so, and all the air rushes out of Bucky's lungs in a sob.

But then Steve's chest hitches and he coughs, a great, hacking cough that Bucky thinks might actually kill him off this time. He moves to sit him up, rubbing his back and patting every so often, handing him the inhaler that he still sometimes needs.

Around them, the other occupants of the building have spilled out onto the street, in various states and styles of dress. He sees their upstairs neighbour, the single mom with twin girls, clutching her children to her side. He sees the little old Latina lady from the first floor, wrapped in her night gown, staring up at the flames that lick the side of their building.

He looks down at Steve, _Steve_ , who's breathing, just about, and he's never felt so relieved.

Blue flashing lights draw his gaze away from Steve once more; first the fire department, and then an ambulance, though it seems that the only person needing any kind of medical help is Steve, who refuses a trip to hospital when he hears the Super announce that they'll be put up in a hotel for a little while, until the building is made habitable again.

"I just want to go back to bed." He murmurs, looking at Bucky with those wide blue eyes, and how the hell could he say no?

~*~

Steve doesn't want to go to bed, though. Or, well, he does, just not to sleep.

"You should rest." Bucky murmurs, lying by his side. "You should have gone to the hospital--"

"Don't you want to talk about it?" He asks, looking to Bucky. "Don't you want to remember who we were?"

"I do remember who we were." Bucky responds in a murmur, but that isn't entirely true. It always takes a while for the last life to come into focus - he's usually one step behind. Though, the longer he spends in 2017 the more he remembers of the 1942, like he keeps finding little bits of film that he can stick back together, trying to make the entire reel.

Steve has an answer for that too, apparently. "Well, don't you want to _talk_ about it? Together?"

"Not particularly." Bucky murmurs. He lies close to Steve and presses his lips to the top of his hair, breathing in the scent of him, slightly smokey now. "I mean - I do. Just not right now. Right now, all I want is you."

Steve looks up at him, meeting Bucky's gaze, and he smiles gently, belying the passion in those eyes. "I want you too." He says, and Bucky believes it. He has no reason not to. "I want you - I want you forever, Buck. But I just - I want to talk about it."

"In the morning, babe." Bucky murmurs. "In the morning we can go and get breakfast, and we can talk about it. All of it. We can try and do some research too, if you like."

Steve looks at him for a long moment, and then eventually, he nods. "Okay." He says. "In the morning."

He pillows his head on Bucky's chest, and Bucky raises one hand to pet his hair, carding through it gently. Steve's breathing shallows as he drifts off to sleep, but Bucky can't settle.

Steve remembers, and yet neither of them are dead.

It can't last for long.

~*~

They end up in the public library, the two of them sitting in front of one computer, Steve's fingers flying over the keys as Bucky looks around them. He's twitchy, constantly on edge. What if a tile falls from the ceiling and flattens them? What if someone runs in with a gun and starts shooting? What if, a thousand _what if_ s, all racing through his mind.

"Look," Steve says, and slowly, Bucky drags his attention to the screen. "Look at this."

It's a photograph, a group of men set in sepia, stood around in what Bucky recognises as England. And he recognises it because there he is, him and a couple of the other guys from his squad. He's smiling, leaning against one of the others and it makes his heart beat just a little faster.

"Do you remember that?" Steve asks, looking at him.

Bucky pauses. Does he remember it? He's not sure. He thinks, but he can't really see it, the images from the 40s still blurry in his mind. "No."

"It'll come back." Steve says softly, smiling gently as he goes back to the screen.

Someone across the room drops a book, and the dull thud echoes around the room. Bucky immediately reaches out, pulls Steve in against his chest, protecting him. Nobody else so much as flinches, though a few people raise their eyes.

"Buck?" Steve says softly after a minute of them sitting like that, Steve hunched over and tucked into Bucky, who's draped over his back. Bucky's breathing is a little ragged, and he doesn't immediately respond. "Bucky. It's okay. Let me up."

Slowly he moves, and Steve unfurls himself, looking up at him and cupping Bucky's cheek with his hand. "Hey," He murmurs, smiling gently. "It's okay."

Bucky looks around at the library, probably the calmest place in the whole of New York, and he breathes out in a gust. "It's not okay." He murmurs, shaking his head. There's the sound of shuffling feet, pages turning. The quiet causes him to whisper, making this exchange even more intense. "It's not okay, Steve. We're on borrowed time, here. I just--"

"Bucky." Steve murmurs again, and Bucky stops talking, mouth snapping shut. He hopes he gets to hear Steve say his name a thousand more times before they were wiped away from this life. "Bucky, nothing's going to happen. And if it does - we'll find each other again. We always do."

Bucky knows that. They do, they always find each other, but they never seem to get enough time together. And what if this time, next time, they wake up in the future and they can't be together anymore?

He doesn't say any of that, though. He just swallows around the lump forming in his throat and nods, trying for a weak smile. "Guess so." He nods, which placates Steve into going back to his research - though not before he's pressed a gentle kiss to Bucky's lips, of course.

~*~

"Looks like it started in the kitchen." The landlord says, standing in the burnt remains of what was once Steve and Bucky's apartment. "Good job you we got insurance - we'll do it all up for you and have you moved back in before you know it."

"I think we're going to look for somewhere else." Bucky says, and Steve looks up at him, bewildered. No, Bucky hasn't mentioned this before now, but he can't - he can't just live in this apartment, the apartment that miraculously set itself on fire. Okay, so apparently it was the refrigerator exploding or something, but still. "We want a place that's ours, y'know."

The landlord looks at the arm Bucky wraps around a rather bemused looking Steve, and he gives a little nod. "Makes sense. Place is still yours till November, though. Might as well talk about the lease then."

He leaves them standing in the blackened hallway of their apartment, and Steve looks up at Bucky, frowning. "We're moving?"

"This was your place, not ours." Bucky says. He glances around at the apartment, which feels so different now. The kitchen is mostly gone, but the hallway and bedroom are fine, the living room and bathroom pretty much okay too. A layer of soot covers everything, but he doubts it'll take too long to clean. That's not the point, though.

Steve begins to glare at him. "I was pretty sure it was ours."

Bucky sighs. An argument wasn't what he was looking for. "I didn't mean it like that." He says softly, his arm falling away from Steve's shoulders. "I just mean that - maybe a change will be nice. Somewhere that was ours from the beginning."

"You're scared." Steve says after a long moment of silence, his eyes searching Bucky's face. "You're scared of living here, because you thought we were going to die, just like you were scared at the library the other day." Bucky turns his face away. It's his turn to frown, now. "You're scared, that's why you want to move."

"So what if I am? We're gonna be married one day, Stevie, maybe it was time to look for a house or a bigger place anyway." Bucky retorts, his brow knitting together. "I don't get why you _aren't_  scared." He adds. He hopes the landlord is gone, not waiting outside, because his voice just keeps getting louder and he doesn't want an audience for this. "Every time you remember we die, Steve. Every time! We've done it three times now and who's to say this time will be any different?"

Steve is awful fierce for someone pushing 5'5 and 90lbs, and he looks up at Bucky with a fire in his eyes, burning brightly. "I don't see the point in being scared, Bucky! It's happened three times and every time you find me again! The world doesn't want us to be apart, it wants us to be together!"

Bucky can't talk it anymore. He has to step back, to move away for just a moment, running one hand through his hair. He looks out of the window, trying to gather his thoughts, but it doesn't help. "You don't get it, Steve." He spins around again, takes a few steps forward. "You don't get it, because you're the one who goes first. Every time we die, you go first and I have to watch. I have to hold you in my arms and watch you die and wait for my turn. Four times, Steve. I've held you in my arms _four separate times._ " He punctuates each thought with a jab of his finger into the air. "You get to just die and be reborn but I have to lose you!"

Steve is quiet for a long moment, looking at Bucky as though he's stunned. Bucky decides to take advantage of that.

"And this time - this time I got to wake up in a world where not only can we be together without being sent to _prison_ , but we can marry each other. All those times you told me you wanted a life with me, and now we can _have one_. A good one." Now there are tears pricking his eyes, his words sounding thick. "One without fear. Except we can't, because you remembered and we didn't die, which means it's right around the corner! Steve--" He steps forward, cupping Steve's face in both hands. "Steve Rogers, I want to marry you. I want to buy a house and adopt a baby with you. I want to wake up every morning and go to sleep every night next to you, but you have to understand that I'm terrified." He can see his own reflection in Steve's watery blue eyes, wide as they look up at him. "We should have died, and then we didn't, and now I'm terrified."

Steve bites his lip, a tear rolling down his cheek. "I didn't-- I--"

"I know." Bucky murmurs. He knows that Steve doesn't get it, and he doesn't hate him for it, he just wishes he might come to understand, some day. "Just listen to me, Stevie. You hear what I'm saying, right?"

"I do." Steve nods, swallowing. "I do."

"Okay." Bucky says softly. He leans down to kiss him, sighing softly against his lips. "Then can we get out of here?"

"Of course." He nods. Bucky takes his hand, finding the corridor blissfully empty as they leave. It' the closest thing to a fight he and Steve have ever had, and he hopes it's the closest they'll ever get.

~*~

"Our names are on here."

Bucky looks over at the laptop screen Steve is looking at, curled up in one of the arm chairs in their hotel room. Thankfully, most of their things were able to be salvaged from their apartment, and since Steve got his laptop back he's been googling them non stop.

"What is it?" Bucky asks, moving over to perch on the arm of the chair.

"It's a list," Steve explains, tapping the screen with one fingertip. "Of all the people who died on the titanic, but whose bodies were never recovered."

"Steven Grant Rogers," He continues, and Bucky's eyes scan the page, reading along with him. "I was twenty two. And Irish." He grins. "I remember that. Being Irish, I mean."

"I liked it." Bucky teases, press a kiss to the curve of Steve's neck.

With a little roll of his eyes (though he's smiling, still), Steve carries on reading. "Hey! Here you are-- James Barnes. You were twenty three. English. One of the catering crew."

"I remember." Bucky nods. "Worst uniform in the world."

He's about to stand up and go back to his spot on the bed when a thought occurs to him. "Is there a Clint Barton on there?" He asks, looking down at Steve.

Steve hums as he scans the list, and then shakes his head. "Nope. He must have gotten out alive."

Bucky smiles a little, giving a little nod. "Okay." He murmurs. "Good."

~*~

Finding information on their first two lives is a little more difficult.

"Apparently at the Pantheon, in Paris, they have this wall." Steve says, lying on his back on their hotel bed, his hands up. He gestures with them as he talks, but Bucky is looking at his face, watching his expression. "And it has all the names of all the men and women who died in the revolution."

"Which one?" Bucky asks.

Steve shrugs. "I'm not sure. We might be up there, though. Maybe one day we could see it." he smiles.

"Maybe one day." Bucky agrees, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

~*~

They consider moving back to Brooklyn, but they decide against it in the end. This is their new life, it's not a repeat of the old, but Brooklyn still feels so much like home that they end up moving one neighbourhood over. Their apartment in Queens is nicer than either of them should be able to afford, but when Tony finds out that Bucky really wants to propose, actually has a date to go ring shopping and everything, he gives him a raise.

"You were due one anyway." He says, when Bucky just stares at him dumbfounded. "Been at this company a long time, Barnes. Your loyalty is noted and appreciated."

Bucky doesn't argue, because he's happy to have the extra money. Their apartment is spacious and bright; it gives Steve room to paint and draw if he wants to, room to study too. It's modern, and yet still homely, and most importantly it feels like theirs.

Two months pass since Steve remembered, and suddenly it's winter again. They've known each other for a year, been dating for about as long. Bucky still panics every time a car backfires or they're trapped in some small space, but he's getting better. He's learning to live.

On the anniversary of their first real date, they go back to Central Park. They stand and watch the Red Pandas scurrying around their enclosure, chattering to each other and shaking out their fur, and when Steve isn't looking, Bucky takes the opportunity to pull the ring box from his pocket.

"Have a life with me, Stevie?" He asks, watching Steve's expression turn from surprise to delight, a grin stretching his lips. "At last?"

Steve grins, throwing his arms around Bucky's neck and kissing him. "At last."

~*~

On their honeymoon, they visit the crypt of the Pantheon.

"Hey, look." Steve reaches out, touches the stone with the tips of his fingers. " _Étienne Roger_. That's me."

Bucky looks at the wall, and he smiles. Right below Steve's name, regardless of alphabetical order, is his own. " _Jacques Bardet_." He says, and he smiles a little.

"Kind of nice being on a national monument, huh?" Steve says, turning to look up at Bucky.

"Nicer to get to be with you." He responds, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, letting Steve snap a picture of their names on the wall before they walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it!
> 
> Thank you to anyone who's been reading this since the start or is just picking it up now - I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Any prompts, questions or comments are more than welcome below, or over at [my tumblr](http://liibxrte.tumblr.com). I have no real upcoming works planned, so if there are any little prompts you'd like to see, now's the perfect time!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you'd like me to add any more tags as I continue to add chapters, let me know in the comments!
> 
> Comments, questions and prompts can be left below or sent to [my tumblr](http://liionne.tumblr.com)


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